Epilogophilia: The Georgia Street Motors
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The friend your friends don't approve of.


**Disclaimer: **These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

**Author's Notes: **Another one of the epilogues from_ Pastische a Trois. _Thanks again, STAR for Brian supporters.**  
**

**The Georgia Street Motors**

epilogue by L.M.Lewis

_A con Hardcastle knows has refused to be paroled. The judge wants to know why. The guy clues him in—recently the outside has become a statistically unsafe place for ex-cons. Hardcastle investigates and concludes the increased death rate is no accident. It looks like the most likely suspects are members of his old cadre—a group of ex-motorcycle cops once known as the Georgia Street Motors. Three of them, including Emmett Parnell, went on, like Hardcastle, to become lawyers and judges. _

_Seeking to infiltrate the vigilantes, Hardcastle stages a fight with Mark. Then he cooperates with Mark's 'assassination', except that he substitutes blanks for real bullets in the murder weapon._

_Is Mark dead or isn't he? Even Hardcastle has some doubts for a while. When the wayward victim finally shows up (with a swollen lip and a bag of burgers), the judge uses him to shake up the vigilantes, and provoke a secretly taped confession._

_No, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But, what the hey—Mark in a sheet, Hardcastle on a Harley. What's not to like?_

00000

Mark watched him climb on the bike and ride off. He'd offered to follow along in the Coyote, on this trip to return the Harley to the guy the judge borrowed it from, to give him a ride home. Hardcastle had said no. He'd take a cab back. It wasn't all that far and he thought he might visit for a while. No sense interrupting a perfectly good afternoon of yard work to tag along.

It all made sense, but somehow, underneath the rational explanation, there seemed to be something else. It was as though Hardcastle had been avoiding him the past couple of days since they'd taken down his bunch of vigilante buddies.

He paused in his stroll back to the gatehouse. He looked over his shoulder at the now-empty drive. _Buddies_. Guys the judge had probably shared a lot of common experience with, first as cops, and later as judges._They were supposed to be the good guys._

In the heat of the hunt, McCormick knew full well, nothing else mattered but that—_the hunt_. But regrets had a way of showing up with the bill. Not that Hardcase would ever cut anyone any slack based on personal feelings. Nope, the law was the law.

And, in truth, they couldn't have been very _close_ friends of Hardcastle's. Mark had met a whole slew of people: many of the judge's friends, colleagues, acquaintances—all the way down to guys who knew where the bodies were buried—in the eight months he'd been at Gulls Way, and he hadn't heard of any of this bunch before.

He had half a suspicion that he knew the reason for that. Mark couldn't help overhearing things, not that he intentionally eavesdropped, but, well, he was around—Hardcase would say _underfoot_—most of the time. There was no question that the judge had taken a certain amount of heat from some quarters over his ex-con employee.

But the people Mark had met directly were mostly openly supportive, or at least quietly neutral about the situation. There was the occasional odd look, nothing more.

_Those__ guys, they wouldn't have been neutral._ Hardcastle could be a donkey, but he was usually pretty perceptive about things—people's attitudes. Mark let himself into the gatehouse. He stood there a moment, looking at a place he'd increasingly begun to think of as home.

_Yeah, well, he doesn't care what other people think . . . but he thought you might, so he might have kept the disapproving ones at a distance._

_He maybe had to pick and choose. _

_And he chose you._

Mark sat down heavily on the couch. He didn't know how many of Hardcastle's old colleagues actively disapproved of his new endeavor. And now, in the aftermath of the hunt, it might be that the judge might had regrets, maybe not about that bunch of vigilantes, but more in the general sense.

_And now he's avoiding you._

00000

Hardcastle exited the cab and paid the driver, all the time peripherally aware that he was just the slightest bit uneager to be back. He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason, but, whatever it was, it had been disquietingly present for at least a couple of days now, even before they'd dropped the hammer on Parnell and his group. _His gang, that's what they were . . . and you thought you knew those guys._

He shook his head once and looked around. All quiet. The lawn done. No signs of life. The Coyote was parked near the fountain. Its owner was nowhere in evidence and he had no particular reason to expect him to be but, it all just seemed rather unexpected.

Truth was, the kid hadn't made anywhere near the number of smart remarks that Hardcastle would have expected over the situation, which, in turn, made the judge feel even more uneasy. On top of that, McCormick agreeing to go along with what, in retrospect, had been a fairly risky scheme to capture the bad guys (_judges, ex-cops—the hell with it, they __were__ bad guys_), that had been unusual, too.

Mark had said something right before they'd split up—right before the scene they'd played out in the bar to get Parnell's attention. He'd said, 'At least this one won't be much of a reach'. He'd been smiling, of course, and Hardcastle already knew the man could drop into a role as though he'd never been anybody else. It'd worked to catch Frank Kelly, and Eddie Sands, and Jersey Joe Beiber—the kid had a gift.

_It wasn't much of a reach for you, either._ He hadn't pulled that punch in the bar. He'd known from the look on McCormick's face, that it'd taken him by surprise, and yet he hadn't said a word later on—oh, just that quick remark in the gatehouse, then nothing. He was pretty sure he hadn't actually been _angry_ at the kid.

He had been angry, though—angry at Parnell, at those guys for violating a trust. _For making us all look bad, maybe, for making the system look bad, and here you are trying to convince Mark to give the system a chance._

He let himself into the house; all was quiet within. He wandered through, ending up back in the kitchen. Almost dinner time and no McCormick poking around in the fridge seeing what the possibilities were. _He's avoiding you._

_How can you trust a system that has guys like Parnell in it? Or cops like Don Filapiano and Joe Cagney, or parole officers like Thomas Quinlan?_

As he stood there for a moment, pondering that, he became gradually aware of a noise, something subtle and sloshy. He walked over to the back door, looking down the back steps. He could just see the back part of the 'Vette, pulled out into the drive. The sound was McCormick, standing next to the car wielding a sponge which he'd just wrung out over a bucket of soapy water.

The judge thought car washing was sort of an art form for McCormick, the one job that he was perhaps fussier about than Hardcastle himself. But it was usually the Coyote that was the object of his attention.

He frowned and stepped through the back door. Mark looked up as he descended the steps.

"How long you been back?" he asked, as he returned to the job at hand.

"Just a couple minutes. You eat yet?"

A shake of the head, and then he was back at the task, stooping to work over the rear wheel well, nothing apparently wrong, which made it hard to bring up the fact that something might be.

The judge stuck to the obvious—"Well, you getting hungry?"

This was the kind of question that was mostly rhetorical. He had yet to hear McCormick answer it with an unqualified 'no'. This time, though, he didn't get the impression that there was too much enthusiasm behind the answer.

"Ah . . . yeah. I could eat." He'd straightened up and then dropped the sponge into the bucket. "I gotta wipe this down." He frowned as he reached for the chamois, then jerked his chin once quickly in the direction of the kitchen. "I don't think there's much in there . . ." This wandered off a little at the end as though he didn't want to point out _why_ the shopping hadn't gotten done the past couple of days.

Hardcastle waved it away. "I can order us some pizza. You wanna pick it up, or should I?"

"I'm not letting you drive this until it's got some wax on it," Mark said sternly.

The judge smiled. This was more in the direction of normal. "Well, I could take the truck."

"Never mind, the Coyote's out. I might as well be the gopher." He stood up straight again and surveyed his surroundings, not quite, but almost, avoiding another look in Hardcastle's direction. "Been here all day anyhow, starting to get a little stir-crazy."

It was an entirely innocent remark, almost undoubtedly of a vintage so old that even McCormick didn't register it a prison term, but the judge felt himself flinch.

The younger man's glance was drawn sharply toward him. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

Mark frowned at him and followed him up the stairs, into the kitchen. He was still frowning as the call was made and the order was placed. When Hardcastle turned around, he was sitting at the table, giving him a slow study. The judge was beginning to prefer being avoided.

"Tony's," Hardcastle said casually. "They said it'd be ready in twenty-five minutes."

That, unfortunately, left ten minutes at least, before McCormick had to depart. The kid showed no signs of allowing any extra time for traffic. Hardcastle gave some thought to going into the den, maybe finding himself some mail to go through. He'd almost acted on the impulse, when Mark interrupted the plan with a comment, pitched a little low, but very intent.

"It's not _my_ fault."

The judge, who'd already started to turn, looked back at him in puzzlement. "What isn't?"

"Whatever heat you take for me being here, for this whole rehabilitation thing of yours . . . I didn't _ask_ to come here."

"Heat?"

"Yeah, like from people like Parnell," Mark shrugged. "I mean, the ones who aren't murderous vigilantes. The guys who just think you're nuts."

"Who said there are any of those?"

"Aw, come on, Judge. All those law-and-order guys. The ones like Filapiano—"

"Filapiano was a murderer, and he falsified evidence to cover it up, and he hates _me_, not you."

"Okay," Mark shrugged again, "so he's an extreme example. But there have got to be a lot of other ones who think you've gone round the bend with this take-a-con-home plan. Even Frank—"

"Frank likes you."

"Frank pulled my file. You knew that didn't you?"

"Well, yeah, he's a cop. He checks stuff like that."

"They're _all_ cops, and judges, and guys who bust people like me for a living." Mark's voice was rising a little in exasperation. "Don't tell me they all think having me around is a good idea."

"Okay," Hardcastle replied flatly, "no, some don't. But that's not your problem. What the hell makes you think that _I_ think it is?"

McCormick broke eye contact, looking down at the table-top instead. "I dunno," his voice dropped down as well, "you just seemed a little, ah, like maybe you weren't too happy with me the last couple days. I thought maybe you were having some second thoughts."

Hardcastle let out a heavy breath; it caught the younger man's attention. He looked up sharply, with an expression that seemed to imply that he thought his assumptions were being confirmed.

"Hell," the judge shook his head, "I didn't mean to punch you _that_ hard—"

"Huh?" It was Mark's turn to look confused.

"In the bar. Guess I should have practiced a little."

"_That_?" Mark felt his jaw expectantly. "Sheesh, I'm glad it was convincing. If they hadn't trusted you—"

"Well, you know you were pretty convincing yourself—"

"Oh, that," Mark smiled. "Years of practice. I really know how to channel my inner con, y'know." The smile was entirely without guile, utterly incompatible with a lie. It wasn't that he was trying to say that it had neverbeen true, only that it wasn't true now.

Hardcastle stood there for a moment, then finally said it again. "It's not your problem, the people who think I'm crazy and you're some kind of fraud."

"Okay." The younger man sat there, not looking entirely convinced. Then he added, "So, if it's not _that_, then what the hell is biting you?"

The judge frowned, then shrugged. "Maybe . . ."

McCormick was looking at him with worried expectance. Hesitance wasn't a common approach for him and the judge realized it.

"Okay," he started over, "maybe it that I kinda brought you here to show you that you gotta work with the system, and stop trying to cut corners, and lately all it seems like we're doing is busting guys _in_ the system who are doing a whole lot more than that."

"_Lately_?" Mark laughed. "Try 'right from the start'. Hah. A parole officer who leans on his ex-cons to heist stuff." Mark sat back in his chair with an expression of some satisfaction. "And you went after him." The look was now accompanied by another smile. "You know, that was what convinced me . . . that and breaking into the police impound to save that mobster's son—"

"Convinced you of what?"

"Convinced me that we probably wouldn't wind up wringing each other's necks at some point."

"Well, that's a relief," Hardcastle said dryly. "You've got a longer reach."

"But you've got a tighter grip, I'm pretty sure," Mark replied, still grinning. "Anyway, you are not the system. I already figured that out, Hardcase."

The judge managed to look a little indignant. "But—"

"Oh, I know you_think _you are, and all that," McCormick shook his head, "but you're not. Which is a good thing, because the system seems to need somebody to shake it up every once in a while, if you ask me . . . not that anybody has."

"It's a good system. It works—"

"Yeah, yeah," Mark nodded before he could get any further into his litany. "_Most_ of the time. So I've heard—" The kid broke off, then started up again, with a slight difference in his tone. "I have, really. Look I've met a bunch of judges in the past six months, and dozens of cops. Most of 'em have been okay. Just guys trying to hold it all together. I get it. There's bad apples everywhere."

"Even in the system," Hardcastle replied grimly.

"Yup, and you go after them."

"_We_ do."

Mark gave this only a moment's thought and then nodded in agreement, before he added, in equally quiet persistence, "But, like I said, it's not my fault if all your friends think you're nuts."

"_All_?"

"Some," Mark shrugged, "many, quite a few."

"A couple . . . maybe," Hardcastle grudged. "And, anyway, what about all your old associates from the House of Many Doors? They must think this whole Tonto thing is pretty crazy."

"Well," McCormick looked a little prim, "you know I'm not allowed to associate with them." Then a grin sneaked out. "And they _all_ agree it's not my fault. I was shanghaied, _coerced_. I had no choice. I get nothing but sympathy. They all really _do_ think you're nuts. Except for Teddy Hollins, he likes you. But everybody knows Teddy has a couple of loose screws."

Hardcastle harrumphed, but then his gaze rested steadily on the younger man until McCormick's grin faded.

"Were you?" the judge finally asked.

"Was I what?"

"Coerced. Did you feel like you didn't have any choice?"

"Well," Mark blinked once, then looked around the room as though he wasn't quite sure how to answer—the effect was very un-McCormick-like, "yeah, I suppose. I mean, the choice was you or ten years in back in Quentin. And, I still might have figured that for a tough pick, if it hadn't been for wanting to nail Cody so bad."

Hardcastle couldn't help it; he thought his expression must have revealed a certain amount of disappointment. "Yeah," he said, "I supposed you'd look at it that way."

McCormick managed to look a little contrite. "You know, Judge, it wasn't like I'd been making really good choices on my own." He shook his head. "I mean, you could hardly screw my life up any worse than I'd already done myself."

"Now there's a vote of confidence," the judge groused.

"Take what you can get, Hardcase," Mark said with a sudden and unexpected smile. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

The judge gave this a moment of silent consideration.

"Yeah," he finally said. "You are."

"Looks like maybe you're stuck with me," Mark smiled. "But," he drew himself up in one final stab at indignation, "it was your idea, not mine."


End file.
